Entrapment
by Eupa
Summary: A fake telegram from Holmes sends Watson on a mission which may be a trap inside a trap, and for once Holmes is genuinely terrified. Includes an unexpected mastermind. Shwatsonlock fluff. Slash. Warning: Contains Christmas.
1. AWOL

**Dedicated, as a Christmas present of sorts (a rather appalling one, I must add- like the socks from random relatives you barely know- that sort of thing), to Popeyy for the fantastic reviews, Chique52 for threatening me into writing, everyone else who's thinking of reviewing and YOU! Yes, you! Enjoy. **

**Minor note: Dunswood may or may not exist. It may also be a garden centre. Never been, don't even know where it is. Nothing like it's depicted in this fic, for those reasons.**

**Warning: May contain Christmas. **

**Watson**

I can clearly recollect the occasion of my introduction to Mycroft Holmes, elder brother of my dearest friend. During the case (adventure is far too sensationalist a word) of the Bruce Partington plans, I was given the impression that only the direst of circumstances or most direct of commands could "derail" (to use Holmes' own words), his brother from the habits he has created for himself. Indeed, his habits are constant and unchanging, regardless of any climate, whether literal or political, and I was struck by his precision. From Pall Mall lodgings to the Diogenes club, his movements are predictable and methodical to the point of lunacy. Such a creature of habit I have never before encountered.

Having realised such about Mr Mycroft Holmes, the 'Jove' of the British government, you can imagine what a shock it was to me when he arrived, with neither advance warning nor any motive that was immediately apparent, at Baker Street.

My shock was easily discernable, not that I had maintained much hope of disguising it; Holmes has often remarked that "brother Mycroft" has even greater powers of observation and deduction than the world famous consulting detective, and so attempting to disguise such seemed pointless. Unfortunately, the younger brother was not in the flat, having insisted upon gallivanting off on "an errand", which sounded suspiciously like the procuring of Christmas presents to me. It would be typical of Holmes to leave such things until the last possible opportunity, or delay their delivery until Christmas Eve. Not that he has many to buy, I suppose.

"Ah, Doctor Watson." My explanation of Holmes' absence pauses in my throat, unwilling to interrupt the authority of his brother, even if he appears jovial enough. "I trust Sherlock is not here?"

How he knows that, I cannot fathom. No doubt this shows on my visage, as he later answers that question. "I apologise, he's running some errands."

Mycroft's smile grows as he waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. "No matter- Sherlock always did have a tendency to leave the actual collection of presents until Christmas Eve. I shall just drop some things off, if I may." He glances around the room briefly before refocusing on me. "I don't suppose Sherlock left some papers for my collection?"

Doubtless another case. I contemplate for a moment, but can record no mention of any such papers. "I'm afraid he hasn't mentioned any."

Mycroft's smile returned, along with a slight wheezy chuckle. "Christmas cards, Doctor Watson- no doubt you are very familiar with his reluctance to even acknowledge such things."

This sets me at ease somewhat, although the odd feeling of jealousy at not being included in a case still throws me off-guard slightly, even though I am perfectly aware of the reasons for it. Unacceptable reasons, of course, and ones that Holmes of all people would despise, which is why I am resolved never to inform him of the true place he holds in my affections. I chuckle in response. "Indeed. If he's left them anywhere, they're likely to be in his room." I gesture slightly in that direction and Mycroft nods.

"Thank you Doctor."

His brief search seems fruitful, although as I am sitting in my chair opposite the door to our rooms, I can see little of it. Finally, he leaves the package on the sitting room table and I bid him farewell before sitting for a while in contemplation. How odd. Perhaps the festive season is to blame. What with all the snow and carolling, it's enough to put anyone into a jovial mood. Maybe even a member of the Diogenes Club, although I would hesitate before accusing him of being surly or ill-tempered.

A chuckle escapes me as I imagine Holmes' expression upon hearing that his brother has ventured from his tracks and visited the flat. Maybe it signals an imminent apocalypse.

"Doctor Watson!" The familiar tones of our landlady Mrs Hudson echo up the stairs, and I once more rise from my chair to meet her at the door, where she presents me with a telegram. "Came a few moments ago, they said it was most urgent."

"Thank you Mrs Hudson." I reply out of habit, already reaching for my coat as my eyes scan the message.

**Watson. 12.30 train, Dunswood. Further details upon arrival. Your assistance invaluable. Holmes.**

Typical.

In the space of twenty minutes, I am on the train and speeding towards "Dunswood". It's times like these when I deeply ponder how wise it was to get involved with a man like Holmes, expecting me to drop everything, even during the Yuletide season, for some vague reason. But it would be difficult to change one's habits now, after so many years of absolute trust. And trust him I do.

I glance briefly into my inside pocket. My old army service revolver has indeed served me well.

**To be continued- watch this space. Writing NOW on the 23rd Dec 2010. Next chapter on it's way. Honest! R&R, please.**


	2. Slight Interference

**A/N: Yes! Next chapter! Please review- this is power-writing before Christmas! All in the festive spirit, what?**

**Warning I forgot: Slash- Shwatsonlock.**

**Holmes**

A large brown bag tucked under one arm, I sprang up the stairs two at a time, but instead of sweeping into the living room, I turned into my own bedroom and stashed the presents where Watson would never expect- the depths of my long overcoat, hung up in the wardrobe. It scarcely ever moves, and a parcel can easily be tucked within it. Certain of my absolute victory, I entered our sitting room with a customary flourish, only to find it entirely wasted. Watson appeared to be missing.

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson!" Our landlady appeared to have expected my call, as she soon appeared at the base of the stairs, as I peered over the railing on the first landing. "Where is Doctor Watson?" While Watson had predicted that he would be present to greet me upon my return, I presumed some urgent business such as a patient in dire need had called him away.

"He received a telegram Mr Holmes, and left at once."

It was as I had predicted- some patient in need had summoned him from me. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson." I returned to the sitting room, which now held only the prospect of further boredom. Noticing a discarded telegram on the table, still laden with tea service, I took the liberty of investigating what circumstances summoned my Boswell from my side, on Christmas Eve no less.

Upon reading it, I decided that my concerns were entirely justified. "Mrs Hudson!"

This time she had scarcely time to materialise before I was at the foot of the stairwell, reaching for my hat and cane. It appeared my plans had been altered; I was heading home after all.

"I may be late back." I informed her, pulling on my gloves and striding into the cold wintery air, with snow seeming to dangle by spider's threads from the grey canopy above, and hailed a cab.

The telegram was not sent by me, or on my behalf, but I failed to see what possible motive they could have for summoning Watson to my old home town. Regardless of motives, means or possible suspects, I was certain that my dear friend was walking into a trap, oblivious to the forgery. He truly has too much faith in me; they are playing on his greatest strength to lure him into their web.

Unfortunately, as I check my outer pockets, it transpires that I have once again forgotten my revolver.

**Watson**

I must admit my curiosity was piqued by the notable absence of my friend from the station itself. I am not one to be easily worried, but I felt my nerves begin to fray slightly at the thought that something has prevented his arrival. Remembering the "further details" I had been promised, I was somewhat startled to be hailed by a young farmhand just outside the station gate.

"Doctor Watson?"

My slightly cautious expression surfaced, but I kept my reply cordial. "Yes?"

Upon closer inspection, the farmhand appeared to be in his very late teens, not yet twenty years of age. His weather-beaten complexion gave him the appearance of a much older man, but his face itself, characterised by childlike features, betrayed his true age. He grinned, rose from his position leaning on the gate and held out a hand for me to shake. Still slightly ill at ease, as my previous experience does not make one warm to strangers without some proof of identity or trustworthiness, I shook his hand, silently pondering the slight disappointment I felt welling in my stomach. It had appeared the moment I'd noticed the man's face, and realised that no cosmetics could possibly make my dear friend into this character, and that his eyes were a dull brown rather than steely grey. Indeed, as soon as any hope of this man being Holmes disappeared, the disappointment began; I felt almost forlorn. Was I of so little importance that Holmes could not spare the time to meet me himself? Of course, such thoughts were foolish and inane. Somehow this did not seem to be enough to prevent them floating to the surface of my mind.

"Mr Holmes sent me to give you this, most urgent like, said it was o' great importance, and I was to give it to none other than yer good self." He held out a small cream envelope, oblong and made of sturdy paper. It was not immediately apparent why I needed this, but I long ago learned to trust Holmes' judgement, even if the reasons for his choices are not immediately apparent to my "good self".

Turning the envelope over in my hands briefly, I expressed a few words of gratitude and the man immediately tapped his cap and turned on his heel, wandering down the country lane towards the main village with an ambling gait. With my only human lead now having dispersed, I glanced around the surroundings, mostly populated by a variety of trees, with a collection of fields visible to my left, glowing slightly in the dim sunlight reflecting off the thin crusting of snow that lay upon everything, a pale blanket of thin flakes. The road to my right seemed well-travelled, although it also appeared to be the only possible direction to go. The sight of a low spire a few hundred metres away seemed to imply this was a small community, as was also suggested by the paucity of other passengers disembarking from the train. The station guard had long disappeared into his hut, and I stood in the crusty snow that covered the dirt track, still visible in places. It appeared that my only lead was the clue I held in my hands. Perhaps it was Holmes' idea of testing my abilities.

Slicing the envelope open with a thumb, I was presented with two thin pieces of paper, of different textures and size. One appears to be the beginning of a letter, cut off sharply below the opening address with sharp scissors, as the edge was cleanly cut. I have learnt some powers of deduction from Holmes, although I doubt I shall ever be able to match his ability.

_My dearest Watson,_

The letter ended there, but I immediately recognised the script as that of Holmes himself, and the idea of a scavenger hunt, likely with some adaptation, seemed likely; resolved to take that as my 'working hypothesis', I examined the second piece of paper. To my surprise, it was a small sketch, quite old as the pencil had faded somewhat. A small hut was depicted on the top of a small rocky outcropping. Rather than give up at once and lament the improbability of finding such a place, I paused to investigate some of the extra details included in the picture. The church spire was drawn to the right of the small building over the crest of a small hill, or perhaps the side of a small gorge. Foliage seemed to continue to infinity on the left, covering some sort of slope leading to a river, just visible in the bottom left corner. Judging from the proportions, this hut appeared to be approximately my current distance from the church, if not slightly nearer.

With a slight swell of pride at my deductions, I tucked both pieces of paper back inside the envelope, which I placed in one of my inside pockets. Deciding on my direction, I began to walk towards the church, pulling my gloves back onto my hands to save them from the chill.

As I neared the church, I noticed a slight gap between two rows of trees, which appeared deliberate and regimented. Some spark of curiosity, coupled with the conclusion that it seemed the right distance from the church set my feet upon this path, although my feet left little imprint in the faint frosting of snow. Nearing the end of the row of trees, I caught a glimpse of a small gorge slightly to my left, and made my way towards it. I would not have suspected that Holmes and scavenger hunts were likely to coincide in any form, but clearly I was wrong. For a few moments, I allowed myself the pleasure of imagining his face when presented with my successful resolution of this little test. Likely the slight smirk that betrayed a secret pride, as he displays on the rare occasions when I manage to detect some of the inferences he had made. Regrettably, I seem unable to make these occasions any more common, no matter how hard I try.

A great wave of triumph swept through me as I reached the top of the small hill, concealing a gorge and the hut no more than a few hundred feet away from me. This elation was so overpowering that I found myself running towards the small ramshackle shed, which looked far more unstable and prone to dry rot than the picture had implied. Odd for Holmes to choose anything with the slightest hint of untruth or dare I say romanticism, but doubtless just another aspect of the task he has set me, although I'd have thought that he would have had the decency to do so himself, not through an intermediary.

It is alarming how swiftly emotion can be transposed, within one simple second or moment in which the entire situation takes on a different tone altogether, seemingly instantaneous. Such was the change that racked my mind as I noticed another sketch, larger than the previous clues, pinned to the side of the shed. Reichenbach. I would recognise it anywhere. My footsteps stop in an instant, still several feet from the offending image. Even this many years after that hellish day, I can only see such a picture through the eyes of loss and pain. A dirty trick for Holmes to pull; has he no regard for my emotion? Yet, when I notice there is no other sign, I begin to doubt that even Holmes would be so heartless. A feeling that soon rises above the rest is fear. A warning, what else can it be?

I would die before I let such a thing happen again.

Panic floods me, doubling and then redoubling a thousand times over as my eye is caught by a familiar scarf, caught in the branches of a tree on the other side of the gorge.

"Holmes."

The word passes my lips unbidden, and my previous running appears no more that lethargic strolling in comparison to my desperate lurching towards this sign. Pausing at the tree, I bend to examine the ground. Footsteps leading towards, and then away, but they are too faint to follow. Far too faint.

"Holmes!" My desperate shout bounced around the trunks of trees that back the gorge, the village completely hidden from view. The only building I can see is a relatively grand one, presumably for the master of the manor in feudal times.

My resolve wavers under the crushing weight of water from the Reichenbach. I failed him before, falling for the trap and not following him as promised- he need not have run, or I would at least have known he'd survived. Alone and unprotected- if I know him at all, he will doubtless have forgotten his revolver- he may not be so lucky the second time.

My voice cracks as I whisper his name again, as though somehow it shall guide me to his side.

Please God, let me find him. Before it's too late.

**Holmes**

For once, my investigations have proved fruitless. Some idiot with a cart has obliterated all possible traces of Watson's footsteps. No doubt he was here; his loyalty to me is unquestionable, although I must confess I fail to see why I deserve it. Wherever these fiends have lured him, from my side and into a trap, I must reach him first.

Quite the sight I must have made, sprinting through the centre of the village- not that there are any outskirts at all. One small area of civilisation, then farming land; futile, yet timeless in its own way. No doubt why my family found it so difficult to adapt.

Reflection and measured deduction are not swift enough to catch my Boswell and prevent whatever crime he shall fall prey to. Action is needed. Upon reflection, calling on my brother was probably not one of my wisest decisions. Action and Mycroft are not even the vaguest of acquaintances. Returning to the family home after so long seemed both unbearably strange and also managed to condense all of my time away into the apparent length of a day. It is not this manor house that has changed- I doubt Mycroft has even altered our parents' rooms since their departure from this world- but I have. However much he might not appear or wish to, I feel confident that my brother has also changed. My ring is answered by Mycroft's elderly butler, who insists upon taking my coat before I may even enter the house- I would not like to upset his ideals, but it is a hindrance to my speed. Speed is imperative. My Boswell must be saved.

"Mycroft!"

A wheezy chuckle suggests that my brother was expecting me. How, I have no idea. Suspicion sparks in the back of my mind, and I study him carefully. "Sherlock. Sit down." His greetings, while being intended as the affectionate greeting of an elder sibling to a younger, still contain traces of command. It is an intrinsic habit that has secured him such success with politicians and government officials alike. Coupled with his mighty brain, he is truly formidable to the average man. Even I must admit to finding his scrutiny a bit unnerving at times; his eyes so like my own have an ability to pierce one's soul in an instant. I recall Watson once complaining the same of mine, and this remembrance prompts a jab of pain and fear to spur me back into action. I am not one to let my emotions get the better of me, and block off my reason, but I cannot stand the idea of my Watson being captured or manipulated by my enemies, and while they add to my speed, I shall use these feelings to my advantage.

"There is no time! Watson-"

Mycroft turns to face me, placing his paper to one side and stretching his legs towards the fire. "Calm yourself Sherlock, you are approaching hysteria."

I am not prone to hysteria, indeed I cannot recall any occasion when I have been in anything even resembling such a state. Naturally, during our younger days, Mycroft merely declared that as we were so disdainful towards such things, our own private hysteria equated to the outward appearance of flustered hens that others seem to favour. I could not agree with him, instead choosing to believe that we are simply unwilling to enter into such things. Hysteria seems inconvenient and almost painful to me; his statement must be wrong. I am not hysterical. Sherlock Holmes does not get into such states- my nerves are as steel. Yet, I have developed the awkward habit of expressing this statement in the third person; blame must fall to my faithful biographer for his constant accounts, granting me the definite pronoun whenever possible and generally glorifying my exploits to the point of lunacy. Romanticism for a good story- that is all it is, yet I find myself wishing that he would choose to see me as a mask rather than machine. On occasion, it appears that he does, but Watson is an enigma of emotion that I simply cannot understand. I may predict his reactions and his thoughts, but I cannot delve into his emotions, his walls are ruthless, and the answers would doubtless be alien to me if I ever managed to retrieve them.

"My dear brother, a sense of urgency does not equate to hysteria!" I refuse to sit. Sitting means lethargy and lack of movement. My Boswell needs me. I cannot afford to waste time.

"Sherlock, I am perfectly aware of what shall befall Doctor Watson, and I assure you that it is all under control." He raises a hand to prevent my interruption. How could he know more than I? I doubt he had moved from his chair all week! "I sent the telegram. I'm sorry Sherlock, but it is time for him to be made aware."

"Made aware?" I reply with some caution, my mind whirring to make sense of my brother's words. He seems to see himself as some sort of protector, an elder sibling and guardian of sorts, although I hardly need such a thing. What he believes himself to be protecting me from in this underhanded and generally convoluted manner, I would dearly like to know. He shall not take my Watson from me. "What has Watson-"

"Sherlock, will you allow me to finish?" His voice contains some trace of irritation, typical of the earlier years when his patience (which it must be emphasised is not without limit, and easily exhausted by those he would consider foolish) with my growing deductive reasoning was diminished. Torn between the inward rant dictating Watson's many virtues and a desire to glean information that may lead to his continued well-being, I grit my teeth and wait for him to elaborate.

Mycroft's smile returns as I fall into silence. He has always appreciated respect, which many would give him without question. Perhaps this is not always the best policy- he has come to expect it from all, but it has yet to land him in real trouble. I deduce there is something in his manner that demands respect, something which I have yet to discover. It may simply be because he expects it.

"It is a simple test, Sherlock. Should he succeed, it will guarantee a warm reception to your letter."

Letter? My thoughts are thrown into mayhem. I have not written letters often- they tend to fade into romantic or poetic imagery that manipulates facts into other objects entirely, and necessitate many details to fill the expanse of space presented by a sheet of paper. Telegrams are much more efficient. But one letter that I have both written and kept springs to mind, one that I should long ago have disposed of. A threat against my reputation, my friend, and my continued existence. How could he know of that? I should have destroyed it long ago, while in exile. I never intended to post it- how could I? Could my own brother not understand the most likely resolution? I shall lose my Watson!

"Kindly enlighten me, brother. To what letter do you refer?" I struggle to keep my voice calm, and his smirk grows, a clear sign that he has detected my inner uproar. It is often incredibly infuriating to have an observant sibling- hiding one's thoughts is paramount to me.

"I don't think any further elaboration is necessary, do you Sherlock?"

A blind rage takes hold of my mind. It is not his place to do anything about this! It is entirely my own affair. He would drive Watson from me, and without Watson, I am lost. I know that too well. The years of silence, not able to contact my dearest friend to heal his wounds, wounds that I can never hope to heal in the future, has scarred me irreparably. It was only during my time away that I realised quite how heavily I relied upon him, and how much my happiness depended upon his presence. To a dangerous extent, but emotions are stubborn and will neither consent to be ignored or removed. Black moods were regular, almost constant, but I could not reach for cocaine without seeing his concerned expression or the disapproval glint in his eyes. It had been enough to bring me almost to the brink of wishing for death, and it would have, if I had not been assured that I could return home and greet him again. If such a hope were to be extinguished, it would not be worth the time to fall into the darkest mood of all.

These thoughts of loss will not vanish, and my face becomes a mask of horror. For once, I feel powerless. What can I do? Mycroft shall not explain his plan to me- how can I prevent this? I hear Mycroft's voice calling me back, but I am already halfway to the front door. If there is even the faintest chance that I can stop him, I must try.

By comparison to my current emotional atrophy, fretting for my Boswell's safety seems relatively simple, even manageable. To imagine him being driven away from me by that work of my own hand is too much to bear.

Watson. Let me find him.

**Mycroft**

Of course, I was expecting such a reaction. Sherlock never could see the wood for the trees when it came to matters of affection. Emotions can blind all minds of men. My first impulse was to leave him to it, but as the elder of the pair, it seemed that resolution was unlikely to be reached without some slight interference.

Having perused Watson's accounts of many of Holmes' cases, I found myself hopeful for their cause. Affection is clear in the Doctor's writing, but I could not point to any particular aspect with certainty and declare it to be proof, which is perhaps wise considering these are papers for public perusal, but inconvenient for my brother. The festive spirit in the air of London is to blame for the final plan, which shall see action today. Should Watson truly hold my brother in such great esteem as Sherlock holds him, I shall expect him here within the half-hour. I have no doubt that at this moment Sherlock hates me. As mechanical as others might believe me to be, I do care for him, and for the sake of my brother, it is my duty to ensure that he is happy, regardless of his opinion of me. And so he shall be.

After all, I promised mother.

**A/N: God, I have mutilated Mycroft. I am so, so, sorry. It makes it worse as he is my favourite character. I wish I was Mycroft, and I'm not ashamed to say it! Please R&R, and a merry bally Christmas to you all! **

**Uploaded: 00:25 app. 25 Dec 2010. Yes. I stayed up on Xmas morning for you. Feel compelled to review. Go on. Please!**


	3. Such A Man

**A/N: Thank you to Hortensia for reviewing- it reminded me to damn well update! Here you go, chaps!**

**Watson**

In moments of frenzy, even the slightest flicker of movement appears amplified, broadcasting a wave of information that sends sparks through the eyes and into the brain in a single instant. Once there, it breeds recognition, checking and rechecking this information against its aim, finding even the most tenuous links to reconcile itself to hope, which promptly blazes through in a haze of beautiful venom, spurring limbs into action as a rider kicks a hesitant horse into motion over an imposing obstacle. I have often experienced such a phenomenon- indeed, Holmes' many cases have created a familiarity between me and this oddity.

A slight fluttering in the breeze catches my eye, and the process begins. How I hope it is his, and yet loath the very suggestion with every fibre of my being. Is ignorance truly bliss? Not while I retain hope that he is not lost.

The dark coat dangles from a frosted wall bordering a lordly house, seemingly climbable; Holmes in particular, with his sinewy frame, would find it trifling to overcome. There are no other marks to be seen, and his scarf seems to confirm such a hypothesis.

But it does seem rather...careless.

I find myself fearing both that my hypothesis is true _and_ that I am being lead astray, away from all hopes of rescuing my friend. At this moment he might depend upon my timely arrival! As my mind grows more and more petrified, my legs revolt by darting forwards. I am barely able to retain grip on the frost which lies almost wholly undisturbed, crushed beneath my feet into treacherous prints of ice.

My feet skid on the sliding surface as I draw near and grasp the wall for support, reaching for the coat before I have even bothered to recover my balance. His, without question. The stains from his explosive chemistry experiment last month, the scars from a grapple with a villain of London's underground of yesteryear, all are plainly visible to those who look. To observe, to deduce. My deductive powers are woeful, but I shall use every power at my disposal to recover my friend. His absence and my concern for his safety tear at my insides in some queer emotional and metaphorical way, somehow damaging every inch of my body and mind simultaneously, but with no outward sign. Adrenalin banishing this onslaught from the forefront of my mind, I scramble over the wall in a distinctly undignified fashion which I shall attribute to the impracticality of the ground surface. Jack Frost has never been one of my favourite meteorological personifications.

Slipping a hand into my inside pocket, revelling briefly in the warmth of it, I withdraw my revolver and check it is loaded. I know it is; the weight of the bullets is easily perceptible, but I check. Paranoia, perhaps, or self doubt. I care little which; now is not a time for quibbling.

Despite the warmth of my pocket, the gun's temperature remains as cold as the frost crunching under my boots; both gleam in the pale light, both chill or numb the fingers that touch them, and both have the capacity to steal the breath of life. A slow working poison or a fast one. The difference can only be elementary.

Advancing upon a door at the back of the house that appears to be ajar, I clutch my revolver in fingers too cold to sweat. No doubt this is a trap. I knew it would be. Whose trap, and for whom, I know not. It matters not. If Sherlock Holmes is beyond this door, whatever the trap or trial might await me, I cannot even consider turning back. I must try.

Thus, the cautionary doctor ventured into the den of the villain, to rescue the prize that he has no right to claim...

**Mycroft**

I fail to see the appeal of this cloak-and-dagger nonsense- sitting in a chair, fingers steepled, waiting for the arrival of the valiant doctor. It does seem _quite_ excessive.

I would consider myself a patient man. Far more so than my brother, that is certain. I would describe myself as an idler man than he is too, but all this frolicking and dashing about seems so very wearisome. The attraction of the entire business escapes me.

Perhaps I should have brought some papers to read.

No matter, Watson shall be here soon, I have no doubt. I do _not_ miscalculate the qualities of other people. I do not mean that as a boast; it simply doesn't happen. Ten minutes. Considering his head-start, I'm rather surprised the good doctor is taking _quite_ this long. Emotional involvement is likely the cause. It usually is.

Ah, the wonders of mirrors. I do believe I can see the door handle turning. Best not move, or he'll probably attempt to shoot me in some rash and desperate action. Just sitting in a chair by the fire with my back to him; hardly menacing.

My word, he does look rather concerned. Marvellous.

**Watson**

"Doctor Watson."

The revolver I had been poised to fire shifts slightly as an involuntary shudder of surprise lashes through my nerves. The chair by the fire shifts, and a familiar face appears. It would appear that all of my "deductions", if I can even refer to them as such, were erroneous. Or rather, about the wrong brother.

It would appear that neither of them understands that the "season of goodwill" is _meant _to be a restful and undisturbed time.

"...If you'll forgive me, I thought Sherlock was here." For some reason, I haven't yet lowered my revolver.

Mycroft sighed, hands resting on the sides of his chair, a grave seriousness becoming pronounced in his expression and movements. I may be a fool, but I lower the gun. Something about Mycroft's expression makes pointing a gun at him seem even more foolish than leaving myself open to attack.

"Do take a seat, Doctor Watson." With barely a pause for me to do so, he continues in a pre-planned speech.

"I must apologise for my manner of summoning you here, but it would be quite inappropriate to discuss this at Baker Street."

I reply, generically, that it is no problem, whilst equally typically my mind floats back to what I could be doing, where Holmes thinks I am and what topic was so sensitive it required this much secrecy. Was Holmes in some sort of trouble? If so, why was it Mycroft who was here and not Sherlock? I have no particular quarrel with Mycroft, but something about his seemingly omniscient being makes conversation very one-sided. Of course, I have other reasons for preferring Sherlock's company, but this is hardly an appropriate moment to go into them.

"I must also apologise for the news I am about to give you. I fear it shall harm your opinion of my brother, but I must ask that you treat it with utmost care and discretion." An unspoken threat twinkled in his eye, and I had no hesitation in resolving never to mention it to anyone. I highly doubt that he would not follow through on a promise, even an unspoken one.

"I feel compelled, owing to your continued lodging with my brother, to inform you that he is an invert."

Such a cold, dry voice. Not even a shred of emotion; no shame, but no understanding or sorrow either. A fact and nothing more.

"I can only apologise for not informing you sooner, and offer to assist you in procuring other accommodation."

Sitting in a silence that I seem unable to break, I notice his eyes are watching me with a piercing stare, beyond the likes of any I have previously encountered. My peace of mind has been shattered, like a rock through a frozen lake, leaving suppressed emotions to swirl around as muddy waters, chunks of ice meshing together to form half-connected thoughts that soon get pulled under, into the current.

After a few moments, Mycroft nods his head in what appears to be an apology. "I understand this will be quite a shock to you, and I am ashamed that _he_ has not felt obliged to inform you earlier."

These words connect with some reflexive defensive instinct inside my mind, and I find my voice again. "It is not my business-"

"A very lenient view." Mycroft nods again, but I discern no real anger in his face, only cold blankness. Is he doing this to drive me away from Holmes? What other motive can there be? But how could I even think of leaving him? Mycroft has clearly not noticed my own orientation, for which I am grateful. He does not appear to be an advocate of such practices.

"He is my friend-"

Mycroft interrupts me with a wave of his hand. "Sherlock is a deviant and a criminal. Ironically, he is also a detective. I can only apologise for helping him to keep you in the dark about his true nature for so long."

A deviant and a criminal. Somewhere in my mind, a switch is triggered, and the whirling waters begin to boil. Holmes is not a criminal. He is the most fantastic of all men I have met, or ever shall meet. My eyes probably blaze with indignation, and I catch a glimpse of something that looks like a smirk, but becomes the faintest hint of a distasteful snarl, upon Mycroft's visage.

"He is the greatest man I know." I state, but my temper begins to overtake my voice as wind builds itself up into a fury, lashing out at any passing pedestrians. "I would never consider him a criminal."

"His tendencies _are_ illegal, are they not?"

My hands dig into the chair arms with a force I did not believe I possessed. At some point, either this wooden chair arm or my fingers shall break. "Not to me. He is my dearest friend. The law may refuse to recognise his _tendencies_-" I am not ashamed to say that a slight mocking tone slipped into my voice at this point, "but I do not find fault with them."

Mycroft's expression was now one of undisguised revulsion. "You can't possibly mean to continue sharing rooms with such a man?" His tone of scorn, outrage and mindless discrimination is enough to make me long to strangle him. My hands slide from the chair as I rise to tower over him, fury clear in my reflection over his shoulder.

With the snarl in my voice echoing the grimace on my face, I muster all pent-up frustrations into a single stare.

"_I_ am such a man."

**Mycroft**

No longer requiring the expression of an outraged elder (several of my schoolmasters provided an excellent point to draw this persona from) I allow my face to return to a more...pleasant expression. It would appear that Doctor Watson is every bit as enamoured with my brother as he is with his faithful doctor.

The appeal of either completely escapes me.

"Sit down, good Doctor." My smile catches him utterly off-guard, and he doesn't move. I do hope he doesn't hold it against me. "My statement was true; my impression of an elderly bigot was not. Please sit."

With a quirk that I call a smile and my brother refers to as a 'dangerous lop-sided smirk', I present Watson with the envelope containing the remainder of Sherlock's ...letter. I would say 'love letter', but putting my brother in the same sentence as such would be an incredibly queer thing to do. "I'm sure you understand I needed to ascertain your own feelings on the matter before sparking a...crisis."

He nods, struck dumb by my abrupt change in character. It wasn't really a question, but that hardly matters. Nevertheless, his control over his temper impresses me. No doubt he is still seething- emotions are very slow to adapt - but he maintains a calmer hostility. Perhaps he shall make a decent antidote to my brother's tantrums and darker moods.

I hope so, for Sherlock's sake.

**Watson**

Familiar paper, although I don't immediately recall where I have seen it before...

Ah. Of course!

It's still in my pocket.

"_My Dearest Watson..."_

A door opens and closes somewhere at the edge of my vision, but I pay it no heed as I match the top of the letter to the remainder, and my world abruptly swings into another universe of dreams and hopes that could never truly be real.


	4. My Dearest Watson

_My dearest Watson,_

_You shall never know how much it pleases me to refer to you as such. It is not appropriate, or possible, for you to know. If you ever read this, you would understand exactly how difficult it is for me to express any of these ideas in print, as I have purposefully attempted to avoid in the past, but now I am without you, dear Watson, I find I am compelled to do so, if only to create some illusion of contact. Permit me a moment of genuine compliment when I say that your skill in this department far surpasses mine. Perhaps that is why it is of comfort to me; you once remarked that it helps you to resolve our cases in your own mind, to draw out the chain of events and form a narrative- how I yearn for such a structuring influence at present._

_You would detest my present state. I am residing in Paris, in lodgings that could be best salvaged with the strategic use of extremely large hammers. Past adventures have left any messages to you in the state of thoughts, nothing more, and I felt I might now be at liberty to attempt the art of writing. How you manage to channel thoughts coherently down so uncooperative an ally as an arm and thence onto paper shall forever bemuse me. Would that you were here to explain it, my Boswell. A purely selfish wish, I am perfectly aware, but you of all people know that I am a selfish being. I need my Boswell. I am nothing without my Watson. I am alone. Devoid of...I cannot even begin to explain, but I must, if only to extinguish these fires within my own consciousness that would destroy my reason. I must exterminate these strange thoughts, feelings, desires._

_Words are utterly insufficient, Watson. I do believe you have lied to me in this regard._

_There is but one question I would ask you. It vexes me so often when I read of my own death or the latest republication of my cases that your idiotic publisher has decided upon. Please, my own fantastical Watson who faces me wherever I turn, whenever I close my eyes, why do you not speak? Where is your smile? Have I hurt you so greatly, beyond all redemption? Every single motion I make without your presence by my side is akin to missing a leg._

_How ironic, that I should question my fantasy Watson, he who neither smiles nor speaks, yet I cannot bring myself to ask you, my true Watson, any of the questions that disrupt my mind. What a coward I must be, to hide behind papers that I should surely destroy, papers that I now know I cannot. Is this how it feels to be an author, Watson? To carve out shreds of your soul and condemn them to the page, unable to relinquish them without losing yourself altogether? Or is that just in my case, in this case, in the case of that ever-elusive, dare I write it, affection (oh, how I dare!), that such bonds to words are born? I do not doubt you have received far more lurid letters than these in the past, and such a thought merely depresses me further- fear not, the scolding face that my mind summons is enough to stop me touching cocaine. Your injured expression has always owned me. Surely you knew that? _

_Watson._

_You leave me at a loss. Such emotional outpourings make for interesting reading, but I am beginning to sound nothing short of ridiculous. I could probably have this published in the Strand, under a pseudonym, of course, for the entertainment of the more lonesome and woefully romantic of society. Please, let me not have fallen into the latter category- lonesome is bearable; woeful heroine is not. I am unfit for such things, as you so aptly demonstrate in your work. Romanticism there may be, but you are steadily portraying me as a stark, stubborn and supernatural creature that none can understand. As flattering as it would be to be the very image of deception, the mask is ill-fitting. These very letters prove it to be so. Or rather, they would, were you ever to see them. The more I write, the more I must destroy, dearest Watson, if only to protect you. Such things would irreparably damage your honour, your code of chivalry and your menagerie of adoring women. __Those_

_Have no fear; I shall not go into a monologue of jealous folly. I am not so far gone that I cannot see reason when it presents itself to me. Watson, I swear that if I see you again I shall find it in my mind to apologise for every last sniping comment about your writing and your women and your molly-coddling. Such a small price would make these times endurable, and with a heart as great as yours, I am sure you would grant me some measure of forgiveness._

_Is that why you present me as the aloof, heartless machine, because my heart is neither as pure nor as open as your own? I should like to see the marker you measure me against, dearest friend. At the fear of these writings plummeting into the realms of gross indecency, I might dare to remark that I would eagerly accept any opportunity to show you exactly how much passion I have in reserve. Scandalous comments, no doubt. It hardly counts when the scandalous comments in question will never be read. I shall never face the shame of your rejection._

_Such thoughts give me courage to express that which I am not able to express, for lack of both words and assurance. You see me as the arrogant detective who enjoys baiting the inestimable Lestrade and other such 'inspectors'- I can almost see your smile at the quotation marks; how I miss such a grin!- yet you do not detect those areas of myself that I hide. It is my own fault. _

_You deserve an explanation, Watson, but I know not how to grant one. In my family, we do not make a show of our affection; we require great observation even to detect it. Perhaps this is why Mycroft and I are more advanced in these skills than others. I cannot define how my actions are to be interpreted, but I am unable, simply put, to declare such things aloud, to burst in with a flourish, wielding flowers and your favoured cigars. It pains me so at times like these, at Christmas, to be unable to give you any present at all. Yet even in past years, whilst I could revel in your companionship, I have spent hours debating what best to procure for you, conscious all the while that, regardless, you would seem to be what you are: genuinely grateful, and that I would, in return, seem what I am not: cold and ungracious. I wonder, when my things were investigated, did anyone note the drawer in which I keep every gift from you? A prime example perhaps of how I am prone to understating these things._

_Your expression remains with me, as it was when I told you that modesty should not be ranked among the virtues, as it is potentially a lie. How many lies I have told, Watson. How often I have laughed about the softer emotions, attempting to live up to that image you have painted of me in your accounts. A circle with no beginning, as it was this that inspired such. I do, in part, detest the power of these softer emotions, but I am their pawn as much as the next man; I merely loath it more._

_I once consulted Mycroft on these matters, as shocking as such a decision may be. To his credit, he did his best to help me, and gave me hope in a few simple words about your writing. "The author of these tales cares for Sherlock Holmes." I do not presume to question his skill for subtext, but it does prompt a question in my mind, one that I cannot satisfactorily discuss._

_Please, my true, affectionate and beloved Watson, is it __me__ to whom you show this incredible loyalty, this constancy in all storms, this final concern as the sun rises to disperse dangers, or is it to the caricature of the man with no heart, no love and a hatred of all things that might be seen as good and pure? Is it me, he who hides behind walls of steel and expresses secrets in a language so minute that it is not interpretable to any but those who look at the world through a magnifying glass, which I know you do not, or is it the other Holmes, the one known to the public, the cold machine that cannot or will not love, as he has no care or patience for humankind? He who cannot harbour affection or he who cannot admit to such?_

_This question shall remain mute, as shall I. This shall be destroyed before too long, rest assured._

_Yours, as ever,_

_Sherlock Holmes._


	5. Every Emotion

_**A/N: Right. 5/6. It's only taken me an insane amount of time. Sorry about that. And thank you so much for the fantastic reviews- I am deeply moved.**_

**Mycroft**

The chain of events is a simple one, and I see no reason to make it seem otherwise.

Click-clack. Heels on a gravel path – what else?

Fifteen steps in as many seconds – frantic, urgent.

Metal handle twisted sharply - a whining creak – the grating sound of wood scraping across marble; frustration.

A squeak and a slam - haste.

I don't even need to turn around.

"Good evening, Sherlock."

**Watson**

I feel compelled to hold it, to protect it, to slide it back into the envelope then ensure that it never leaves my side.

That would be unwise.

How can any of this be?

It can't.

I must be quite mad.

Raised voices permeate the chaotic string of my consciousness, and my thumb ceases caressing the fine paper. An unconscious action.

One of many, no doubt.

**Sherlock**

"His tracks are gone! What have you done with him, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock, do make an effort to calm down. You look positively flustered, dear brother."

I could hardly expect Mycroft to appreciate _urgency_, I suppose. "Where is he, Mycroft? What have you done with Watson?" The words are choked out from between my teeth, nipping at the edges of a full-bodied shout. Flustered. Do I not have a good reason? I should think that the rather impressive chances that I shall never see Watson again are a rather plausible excuse- I am not flustered. I am...irritated.

Mycroft nods towards the door to his right. If I just nudged him aside, I could leap in and-

"I took the liberty of giving him the reading room- it seemed appropriate."

I could strangle him. My brother, turned against me, against everything I have worked for, against _my Watson._

He's reading it. How could he not be?

I am too late? Indeed.

"Sherlock, sit down. You appear to be on the brink of fainting."

"**I am not**!" This time, it is a shout. A yell that quivers slightly in the middle, but only because the butler is attempting to force me into a chair.

"Release me!"

"Doctor Watson will be expecting you." Mycroft mutters, consulting his golden pocket watch: family heirloom; six generations old; expensive; well-cared for. These deductions churn on and on in the mill of my mind, repeating these same old exercises and silently churning out similar responses, as has happened a thousand times before.

My knee seems to be conspiring against me, tripping me from half-way down my leg, and I half-fall against the door. There's no chance that they didn't notice. My pride takes a hit.

My hand is shaking. Positively shaking. Reaching out for the handle and shuddering as though trapped on a tractor of its own terror.

Sweep in as normal. Kick the door shut- Mycroft's varnish be damned! – Watson.

No doubt he heard my hand's clumsy attempts to turn the handle.

He looks at me as a new creature, a rare specimen of some bizarre disease, the latest cure in his medicine cabinet. Yet, his eyes still hold some warmth. I am not yet a spectre to him. I am his friend, changed, revealed, but not yet beyond recognition.

Of course he's read it.

The envelope is unscathed. The letter too. He has not had time to tear it up, or wishes to use it-no. Do not be absurd.

He looks dazed. He's too shocked to be angry.

His collar is slightly askew, and the strands of his hair are windswept and slightly damp. He has been running and climbing- the front of his jacket still holds a few crystallised water fragments. Nearby lie my coat and scarf; the bait. A mixture of thick snow and mud clings to his shoes. The mud is native to this area, a pale brown, clingy and murky sort of slime. Thick snow- a few grass shoots trapped in the icy clutches, latched onto the shoe with desperation. No doubt he took a field route, likely over a wall- how else could he enter from this side of the house? – explaining his wet footprints at the open back door. His revolver juts out slightly from his pocket. That's my Watson.

**Watson**

My instinctive reaction is to help Holmes into a chair and call for brandy. He looks...ill. Haggard, frenzied, panicked. His hair is dishevelled, and not purely from the wind. His hands look absolutely frozen. No doubt he forgot his gloves again. His lips are chapped. Well, I know where the scarf was.

His posture is stoic, but no longer collected. His expression is cold, but wearing at the edges, fraying into hints of intense mental paralysis. I have seen it before, but not in my friend Holmes...

To my shame, I do not break the silence. I ought to offer him my chair near the fire, make him warm his hands and ask for a brandy, but I do nothing. I stare numbly at him as my thumb makes gentle circles on the underside of the envelope.

I'm not seeing him differently...am I?

My eyes lose focus, and my mind clutches at the final rational explanation – whatever remains, however improbable, must be true – and fury builds. Perhaps this is all some great experiment, with Holmes playing himself, the insecure version.

He cannot truly love me.

The very notion is absurd.

...I want to believe it.

More than any other hypothesis I have encountered, would that this one were true!

He can't hold my gaze. No doubt he is feigning that to examine my countenance from the corner of his eyes or some such. The entire thing is not entirely dissimilar to his pretence of death to catch a murderer.

Perhaps he is simply bored, and Mycroft agreed to entertain him with a little treasure hunt and Watson-foolery.

If he thinks I shall fall for it, he is mistaken.

Paralysis of the mind lifts as my blood is once more warmed, now by anger. Fiercer than I have felt in a long time, it hardens the lines of my face, stops my thumb's pattern on the back of the letter, and stares Holmes down from the centre of my eyes.

Oh, he plays it well. Of course he does.

**Holmes**

Fury. That is what I see.

Fury.

As I suspected, his mind has freed itself from the shock-induced paralysis.

Confound emotions! They prevent my flight yet they urge it on. They strike more sharply than any assassin's bullet, and straight to the core. They are insufferably contradictory and indecisive.

Where has my pride gone? Why has it left me alone and defenceless in the storm of Watson's disapproval?

The train of deductions, a background noise in the whirling pit of my cranium, gives a final toot of the whistle and vanishes.

I am truly alone.

**Watson**

He's turning away; planning to run. He knows I've seen through him, but this joke is too cruel to let it lie.

"If there was even one word of truth in this letter, you will not leave!"

A challenge; he never can resist one. It rings around the room, and he freezes with his hand on the door handle. A few moments pass.

Holmes' back straightens, and he half turns in my direction, eyes fixed on the carpet. "Even _your_ powers of observation cannot be so resolutely oblivious, Watson." His hand remains fixed on the handle, as his eyes are trapped by the carpet fringe. The tone is not accusatory or hurtful, but listless, almost entirely soulless.

I will not deny that this throws me, but my doubt wins out. "Perhaps not. But I would not rule out the possibility that this is some experiment of yours."

His eyes flicker from the carpet, sharply jabbing towards my own, like a wounded animal. "Do you consider me so heartless?"

I feel slightly abashed, but stop myself from falling for it. I've already fallen for _him_. The mistakes are sufficient without further insult.

"...I can see I was correct; you can see me as nothing but a machine." His voice takes on an edge of irritation. No doubt he is frustrated that I am not playing along with his little scheme. "That calculating machine that you present to your _great and glorious_ public; I was foolish to expect anything else. How I wish I could be that cold emotionless creature you appear to care for, Watson. No doubt that would appease you."

Fury overtakes my senses. How _dare_ he...

"Can you blame me for such an assumption, based on your past actions? You-your refusal to even consider the emotions of others- sometimes I doubt you can even see them!" Anger jabs stammers into my speech, as I do battle with conflicting defences and attacking barbs.

"I shall not be lectured on observation by you Watson; it appears to be the only aspect of my nature that you can bear." His hand leaves the door handle, and his face flushes briefly with a spark of colour. His facade is breaking!

"...That's not true Holmes! You bloody well know it isn't!" He is baiting me. I shall not fall for it. Never.

"Do I Watson? It seems to be you as well as I who cannot suffer me to express any emotion-"

"Holmes, stop this!" I half-jump from my chair, steadying myself with a hand on the arm-rest. "I have gone along with your plans in the past, but this is more than any man should have to stomach."

"I disgust you then?"

"_I am such a man!"_ The echo rings through my mind, blazing a trail which phrases persist in following, haunting my every argument.

"Holmes, do not mock me. Do what you will, but do not mock the time I waited for you, the time I believed that I was without compass in my existence."

_Watson. You leave me at a loss._

"Oh, how delightfully poetic of you, Watson! What of you mocking me? Every account you add increases the lack of emotion I demonstrate!" It always comes around to my writing eventually. Phrases from the letter drift into my mind and I take a step forward, so that I can no longer see even a corner of it.

_Words are utterly insufficient, Watson. I do believe you have lied to me in this regard._

"That is for the public, Sherlock!" His words, combined with snide remarks from the letter and my own inner thoughts, have swiftly driven me to the most intense of irritations. "If you knew me at all, you would not presume that is what I believe of you!"

"Then what _do_ you believe Watson? Surely I deserve to at least know the depths of the caricature that you have crafted as an exact image of me!" His anger is now boiling onto his face in flushes of red against his otherwise colourless complexion. Ivory is the word my mind has attached to it. Only now do I remember that ivory is the product of brutality, agony and death.

"You know nothing of how I see you! You understand nothing of what I see when I look at you! Why must you mock me?" My voice almost breaks on the last few words, and my anger rises. How I wish I could just flee, but that would be nothing short of hypocritical.

"Why do _you_ mock _me_, Watson? I did not consider you that cruel, to laugh in my face when-" The thought seems too much for his "stoic" mind to comprehend. "Is it any wonder I do not demonstrate emotion so freely?"

"Demonstrate emotion?" Mock edges into my voice, and I can no longer stave it off. "Is that what you want, Holmes? Freely demonstrated emotion? _Every_ emotion?"

He seems to almost wince as I advance towards him, but makes no move to run. Despite his greater height, he seems almost fragile to me now, within reaching distance of the door but making no move to flee. Some suspicion starts at the back of my mind.

_I wonder, when my things were investigated, did anyone note the drawer in which I keep every gift from you?_

No. No one did. No doubt another lie, to soften me up. To make me his pawn entirely.

A blind fury, almost a battle-fury, wells up inside me, and my feet continue to march forward as though I were back in the lines at Maiwand.

"Every emotion that I feel for you." The words are spat through gritted teeth and he bristles, seemingly torn between flight and fight.

My hand locks around the front of his jacket...

**A/N: Sorry...**


	6. Very Little Has Changed

_**A/N: Sorry for the oh-so-dramatic "cliffhanger" attempt of the last chapter, but I just couldn't resist. Anyway, here's the next and FINAL instalment! Also, sorry for the delay, but I couldn't sign in to fanfiction for some reason- accursed technology blip.**_

**Holmes**

It is absolutely certain. I am about to be hit.

My limbs are suffering from acute...yes, fear. So, this is what it takes for the Great Detective's blood to "run cold".

His hand grasps the front of my jacket, and I steel myself with what little backbone I have left.

My eyes won't close. They just won't.

This may well be the last time that Watson will meet my gaze.

I intend to savour it.

**Watson**

He brought it on himself.

I'm not sure which impulse was stronger. It may well have been the more damaging.

It's always bloody Holmes.

That expression of...fear. It must be fear.

My anger demands that I make him pay for the agony in my soul; my affection insists that I make him feel safe again.

Holmes.

Oh, he must know I could never hurt him.

To a bystander, I can't help thinking that it would have looked rather a lot like a headbutt.

Not very accurate.

His eyes are still open, staring into mine. What little I can see of his face from such close proximity might as well be some obscure type of tobacco ash, for the all the deductions I can make about his thoughts.

He locks me into an embrace, eyes slipping shut just as mine do. My hand slides from the front of his jacket to his shoulder.

Pain? Anger? Regret? Guilt? Joy?

I'm not quite sure what I'm feeling. Not yet. The sight of him, the scent of him, the taste of him- never leave. Words _are_ insufficient. I lied to him in that regard.

"Watson." The word is a sob- a true outpouring of relief and affection, muffled by my shoulder, where his head now rests.

"Holmes."

"You were- are...You are not angry?" For answer, I run a hand gently over the hair at the nape of his neck and upwards across the back of his head, stroking the strands between my fingers gently. Silk does not compare. The odd glint of snow in amongst the onyx strands catches my eye, and I continue to brush them gently away. "But- you- I would never make this into an experiment, Watson."

I make some kind of shushing sound, intent upon my arguably bizarre smoothing action, but he tears his head from my shoulder, removing the distraction, calling my eyes back to his own.

"No. You must never doubt upon that point, John Watson. Never."

I nod. "And vice versa." He smiles, and I realise that I have been doing the same for quite a considerable time. I must look almost drunk on elation.

Neither of us needs to say what "that point" is.

It would be...unnecessary to do so.

But I should like to hear it all the same.

**Holmes**

As the familiar scent of Watson's hair product fills my nostrils, I begin to suspect that there is some manner of alluring, addictive substance in it. I shall certainly never be content again in its absence. Life shall be pale and dry without it.

Just as the earthy, golden-tinted brown of his hair is also a necessity for a continued existence.

In fact, I do believe I am wholly dependent upon his continued presence to stand even a chance of survival.

Very little has changed.

"Out of interest Watson, what precisely did you say to put my brother in such an insufferably smug mood?"

His chuckle is muffled as he rests against me, head just beneath my chin. I dip my head to lock us together, or for some other peculiar instinctive reason that cannot be explained in any other way than 'it seemed the thing to do'.

"Oh, that I was only waiting for the opportunity to ravish you."

This mischievous side of Watson is one I have not seen nearly often enough during our acquaintance, and I hope this shall alter dramatically forthwith. I feel I ought to respond, perhaps declaring that some great beauty of nature pales in comparison with his features, or some not entirely false statement about the ferociousness of my affection.

Unfortunately, I believe the shock might kill him.

"What a coincidence." I smirk into his hair, contemplating whether it would be frightfully ungallant of me to snatch another kiss. For some reason, again I cannot entirely define it, our earlier kiss has been rather preoccupying my mind. Naturally, I _am_ able to think of other things, but it is rather similar to the effect produced when one has forgotten something important, crucial even, and cannot yet recollect the mishap. Most illogical.

"Holmes, my dear chap, I really thought- for a moment, I was almost going to hit you." How he manages to make the shift from resting his head under my chin to tipping my head down with a thumb in one seemingly fluid motion is beyond me. He examines my face as one might a dearly loved bear, for signs of pain that he _knows_ cannot be there. The good doctor has always been too concerned about my health.

"Indeed, my dear Watson, and you may attain universal renown for evoking terror in the world's only consulting detective."

His grin is obscured as our noses touch, and I feel his breath on my chin- not an unpleasant feeling in any way. "Is there a badge?"

As much as I should ordinarily love to, continue the joke, my compartmentalised wit has been pushed aside for an entirely new set of responses. "Perhaps..."

Neither of us has moved. I suppose it is my turn? Is this how the matter of initiating kissing works?

Alas, it is not one of the subjects upon which I have penned a monograph.

Resisting the temptation to lick my lips, I raise my left hand, previously- Oh, as if its previous position is of any relevance! – to run my fingers along the side of Watson's neck and rest with his jawbone cushioned gently by my palm. Why I should feel compelled to treat Watson's bone akin to china is not forthcoming, but it does not irritate him so it is not a present concern. If anything, he leans into the touch, head tilting slightly to his right, enabling our noses to avoid an awkward imitation of railway coaches being connected. This is becoming a very enjoyable pastime.

We do not pull away far. This is apparently acceptable, and I find no fault with it.

"Is there anything you cannot do?" Watson chuckles, and at his audible breathlessness my pride swells. I did not intend such a term euphemistically.

"It is no great measure of skill on my part, John. It can only be a result of your innate kissable qualities."

I find myself tipping backwards, shoulders connecting with the door. It is not overly forceful, but a clearly audible thump. Let brother Mycroft infer what he will. A hand at the back of my head prevents any slight pain, and I find the position uncommonly comfortable. Watson pulls back more quickly, his eyes darker than I have ever seen them. I believe this to be a good sign. The vehemence is also a positive rather than negative action.

"I hope, for both of our sakes, that you never say something like that when we have company." John's words are punctuated by slight pants. "I cannot vouch for my restraint...Innate kissable qualities- how, Sherlock, does that possibly have such an effect?" Despite being addressed to me, I cannot help feeling that the question is purely rhetorical. I suppose he alludes to my apparently stoic comment being interpreted, quite correctly, as rather more lustful. "My dear Sherlock, I know you don't need me to say it, but by..." he struggles for an appropriate oath. "Sherlock, I am irrationally and irrevocably in love with you."

To hear such words spoken is...different than I had imagined. They are no longer pure fact, but something...more. I cannot explain it; find out for yourselves, whoever 'you' might be.

"The former, I had discerned." I acknowledge, straightening my spine slightly but remaining propped against the door like a pale, gangly ladder. "The latter, I could but hope for."

He understands. He understands that this is my equivalent, my match for his words of love. He moves to kiss me again, but this time I hold up one finger, halting him. "I- One moment." I compose my thoughts, and observe his bewildered countenance, tinged with hope and fear. Or maybe it is my vision which is tinged with hope and fear. Intriguing.

"My dear John, I can only state the fact that without you I cannot feel, and with you I cannot speak for feeling."

My Boswell always understands, and in this instance, no doubt far better than I do.

An instant later, my hands glide up to his face once more, thumbs brushing away two swift, warm tears.

Cold seeps through my very soul. Oh, how delightfully poetic of me. "Watson-"

"Holmes." Then I notice his smile. "I am quite overcome."

Relief spreads through me, and I shut my eyes for a second. As I open them, Watson reaches out a hand, one finger extended, and delicately wipes below my left eye. A glistening dampness clings to his forefinger, and I very nearly gape at it.

Warm arms encircle me, and I slide my own around his back, each head resting on the other's shoulder. A Scotland Yard inspector, or any other individual utterly blind to deduction, might have thought us bereaved. They would not guess that this was quite the opposite; an end to bereavement.

Watson pulls away and wipes his face a final time upon a handkerchief. "Holmes."

"Watson."

He nods in the direction of the door. "Shall we?"

"Onward as ever, my dear Boswell."

With a flicker of a smile, he throws my coat and scarf to me from the table where he deposited them earlier - how long earlier, I cannot be sure – but it becomes a fully-fledged smile as he tucks the envelope and letter therein into his inside breast pocket. Silently, in my own mind, I repeat the phrase "I love you", toying with it, investigating the reverberations it produces. For a moment, something in his expression seems to suggest- no. I am _not_ developing a taste for the fanciful.

As I pull on my coat and scarf, Watson strolls past me to the door I entered by. Turning back with his hand on the brass knob, he smirks, catching my attention, and mouths the words straight back to me.

For a moment, I indulge my taste for the fanciful notions of mental links. However, excluding this impossibility, there is another hypothesis which fits the facts; that I have been so far distracted as to not control the negotiations between my mind and lips adequately. A faint heat popping into my cheekbones, I avert my gaze swiftly, but too slowly to miss Watson's exaggerated impression, gently mocking me. He swings the door inward and gestures for me to go first; I give a great show of hauling my dignity together before doing so.

I do not move very far into the hall and Watson stands directly behind me, his back touching the door he has just shut. Unfortunately, my plan for revenge is cut short by a call from the library opposite, where the door is ajar.

"Sherlock! Have you taken leave of your manners as well as your senses?"

The gruff but jovial tones of my brother awaken a slight guilt and reluctant thankfulness, prompting me to heed his summons. Pushing open the door, I find him half-hidden behind three different red boxes, all in varying stages of decay. Despatch boxes, no doubt crammed with all the government information for the Christmas closure. Everything from unemployment to ink pot orders.

"I was not given chance!" I object, theatrically waving my hands upward as I drop into a chair opposite him. He immediately stands and extends a hand to Watson, who is lingering near the door.

"Doctor Watson, I am indebted to you."

He accepts the handshake, suspicion in his stance – if you must know the details, his weight lingered on his back leg as he stepped forward to accept the handshake, displaying an unwillingness to either extend contact or trust my brother with more of his weight (as anyone who has ever been pulled over by a jesting colleague in such a manner should understand), and suggesting that he was likely to take a step back as soon as possible, as he did. I endeavour not to appear too smug as he loiters little more than five inches from my left side, or as he leans an elbow on the side of the chair I am currently occupying.

Mycroft's expression clearly displays that I have failed, but the predominant expression is one of beguilement. He does look uncommonly like father on some occasions.

Seeing that Watson has not understood, Mycroft continues in a warm tone - affected, I thought, but not insincere – he was attempting to make his sincerity plain to one outside of the family. Those "outside of the family" tend to have a habit of suspecting that we are all secretly sarcastic. "I mean to thank you for your support of Sherlock and for enduring the tedious facade that was necessary, to ensure that he did not have time to devise an excuse for his letter. Frankly, it would have led to more running around in circles than I can bear to contemplate."

Watson shifts slightly beside me – being a former soldier, his posture is always rather firm, but I shall not dwell on that at present – and I notice a smile break across his face out of the corner of my eye.

"It would indeed." With only slight hesitation, his hand slips from the back of the chair to my shoulder. There is no acknowledgement of this, but I cannot help feeling as though I am being prepared for some manner of family portrait.

Stepping out from behind his desk, my brother fixes his gaze on the carpet for a moment before speaking again. "Are you of a mind to head straight back to Baker Street?"

Neither of us speaks, questioning quite what our decision would have been. My own notion had been of finding anywhere remote and spending a decent interval acquainting myself with Watson more fully.

"I only ask because I am in a very grave situation." He turns away from us, hands clasped behind his back.

I heave a sigh of exasperation, but I am cut off as my brother speaks again.

"Very grave indeed. My housekeeper quite _insists_ upon preparing an entire turkey for Christmas dinner tomorrow, and I am quite certain that I cannot possibly manage it all by myself, nor can I stand the prospect of two weeks of cold turkey sandwiches."

He turns to face us again, a full-bodied grin upon his features, which combines with his white sideburns to produce a truly Yuletide effect.

Mycroft and I have always been able to amuse each other, and my childhood returns to me in an instant as laughter bursts from my mouth. I swing myself up from the chair, stride across and clasp my brother's hand.

"My dear brother...it has been too long."

A tinge of regret crosses his face, but only I notice, as I alone know what to look for.

Darting back to Watson, I fling an arm around his shoulders in an outpouring of elation and Yuletide vigour. "This is quite the predicament, is it not Watson?"

"Grave indeed." He shakes his head with an exaggerated slowness. "I am certain that this matter requires our full attention."

"Perhaps not _quite _full, but very nearly." I mutter into Watson's ear and his cheeks omit a slight redness.

"Excellent!" Mycroft declares, ringing the grey bell-rope I remember from childhood. A particular evening's entertainment had consisted of swinging on it, and had resulted in three grazed knees. Not all were mine, obviously.

His butler arrives as if from nowhere, smoke gushing into human form then floating onward, waiting for the call.

"Stanley, do show Doctor Watson and my brother up to their room."

The man could only be Mycroft's butler, as he bats not one eyelid at the singular accommodation. "Of course sir." We follow his sweeping form up two flights of stairs and along to the western side of the house. Far enough away to avoid disturbing anyone, I note.

"Your suitcases are at the end of your bed, sirs. Will there be anything else?"

I am heartily tempted to ask him for something unspeakably indiscreet, purely to see if he should bat an eyelid.

"Not at the moment, thank you Stanley."

Stanley departs, and I shoot John a reproachful look.

"You had a conniving glint in your eye." John turns his back on me and heads to the suitcases. "As if the poor man is not already stretched to the limits of discretion."

Opening his suitcase, he frowned. "These are _my_ clothes. And _my_ suitcase. How did these get here?"

"Mycroft." I replied, waving a hand lazily. "You forget, my dear, that he is Jupiter."

Sly as a fox, I snake my arms around his neck as he sits on the bed, peering at the case.

"What time is dinner, do you suppose?"

"Seven fifteen. It has been since time immemorial."

"Always?"

"Oh, since the crusades, I should imagine." I remove my head from his shoulder and loosen my arms slightly. "Mycroft is a creature of habit, if you recall."

"And it is five thirty now."

"Indeed."

"How convenient."

The room spins on its axis as Watson spins around in my arms, grabs me by the front of my coat and rolls with me onto the bed. The case slams shut as it connects with the carpeted floor.

Watson's hands press down on my shoulders as he towers over me on his hands and knees.

"If I may say, my dear John, you are looking incredibly conniving at present." My voice is rather more breathless than I'd expected; air hitches in my throat.

"I should hope so." His voice has not always been on such a low note, of that I am certain.

He unbuttons the top of my coat gently, unwinding my scarf from my neck and flinging it to the floor. He takes a moment to remove his own and I sit up swiftly, running my fingers through his hair as our lips meet.

I am astonished to find my mouth yielding before my mind gives it permission to do so, and flick my own tongue between John's teeth; he gasps at the intrusion, but I doubt he is surprised. I fling my leg over his and roll us back, seeking to reverse the power balance I unconsciously permitted. As enjoyable as it was, I shall not give in without a fight.

This bed is not big enough, alas. As I roll over too far, leg still locked around John, my back meets with air rather than mattress, and I am forced (not that it is a trial of any sort) to wrap my arms around Watson and cling like some manner of limpet as he struggles to remain on the bed. With a heave, he yanks me to his chest, where I cling like an infant to its mother, and rolls us sideways until I am resting atop him, safely on the bed.

"So determined to have the upper hand." Watson laughs, exhales and speaks simultaneously, and as his chest heaves beneath my hands, I realise I am still clinging to him.

I also have no particular inclination to let go.

Our heads are resting at the foot of the bed, with my arms locked around his torso, legs entangled; my head rests somewhere in the region of his throat. He plants a kiss on the top of my head and, as I am suitably distracted in seeking his mouth, brings his knees up and flips us. My head lands on a pillow and I am shaken from his chest by the unexpected movement.

"Element of surprise." I mutter, petulantly. John graces me with an indulgent smile.

"I have heard it said that it is crucial in catching hardened criminals."

"You believe me a _hardened_ criminal?"

"A joke in _very_ poor taste."

Any retort I was on the brink of devising is obliterated by Watson's lips upon my own; the most effective silencer.

For a while, at least, I am content to let him have the upper hand.

Naturally, I am only lulling him into a false sense of security.

As he pulls away to continue removing my coat – whatever possessed me to put it back on has a very cruel sense of humour – I lean upwards, assisting in its removal and take advantage of the moment to whisper something very important into Watson's ear.

Very little has changed.

_**A/N: And that's it! If you liked it, I've got a couple more on my profile, and may write up the Christmas meal itself; that might be fun. However, if you've a better idea, please PM me and I'll see what I can do!**_


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